All That Remains
by sapphireswimming
Summary: Tag to s10e01: Black. Crowley's done howling at the moon and wishes that Dean would start acting more like a demon already.


**Set during Season 10 Episode 1: Black, although it's probably an avenue that the show will not end up exploring at all. So this will probably end up being a canonically inconsistent concept by next Tuesday. XD**

**This fic came together after reading an analysis thread of this episode on tumblr. Agelade ended the post with a few lines of dialogue between Crowley and Dean that sparked something in my head. So while a lot of it doesn't quite follow her not-quite-prompt, I definitely owe this idea to her.**

**Thanks for Laora for the title.**

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><p><strong>All That Remains<strong>

October 9, 2014

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><p>They spent a long week howling at the moon from some backwater town in the middle of nowhere.<p>

The King of Hell would honestly rather have anywhere else on the planet, but his new project planted himself down and did not look like he would be budged until he had drunk the town dry. So, in order to keep the new and improved Dean Winchester happy, Crowley would stay in the foul pit of broken dreams, and think of all the ways that mutilating his own body or those of others might make the stay more bearable.

Or get them kicked out so he could direct them to a finer establishment where they might actually start putting Hell's affairs in order.

Dean sat at the bar as he had done for so many years, ordering shot after shot, grimacing as the whiskey went down with some heat and waving away the bartender's concerns even when the guy appeared to have at least three hands after a few dedicated hours hunched over the counter.

Crowley winced as the man slammed back foul liquids he wouldn't dream of touching. And wondered with increasing amazement just how much he had to drink to begin to show it. He seemed to be able to down pitchers of beer without any of his reactions slowing down in the slightest. Growing up hunting had engrained them into the guy, he supposed, but still, it made him wonder how often Dean had been living off of alcohol during one of their previous interactions. He'd always known that the hunter liked to drink but realized now that he probably wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between Dean sober or as a functioning alcoholic.

As the night drew on and the many drinks had lowered his inhibitions enough— or maybe with his new strength and level of near invincibility, the ramifications simply didn't bother him— Dean took the stage for some horrendously off key karaoke. The Moose probably wouldn't have minded even though he would have been able to dissuaded him from making his brother's singing-in-the-shower voice public.

But Crowley had to sit at a table trying not to plug his ears as the racket continued. He wasn't going to stoop to throwing things and hissing his companion off the stage— because that was bad for long term business— but he was beginning to think that his country's signature instrument had nothing on a drunk Winchester basking in the non-existent glory of who knows how many one hit wonders.

He was all too happy, therefore, to steer his new partner in crime toward some more profitable means of entertainment in lieu of taking the stage. With a little prompting, Dean proficiently hustled the town's suckers in pool, darts, foosball. Gladly stripping them of money that could fund his freely running tab and occasional trips to the nearest burger joint or convenience store for actual sustenance. And porn when he wasn't lucky enough to get the real thing.

When Dean broke off during one of their planning sessions— while Crowley was trying to explain their ever so profitable future together— to go defend a girl's honor, The King of Hell rolled his eyes and sighed with long suffering patience.

_Winchesters_.

But that very familiar thought made him pause. He'd known the brothers for years. Plotted side by side with them for years. Been thwarted and double crossed and hunted and nearly saved by them ever since they crossed paths.

And this new demonic behavior... this was... nothing different than what he'd come to expect from Dean Winchester.

Puzzling over this thought, he stood off to the sidelines and watched Dean brutally punch the offending party, bloodying his nose and then leaving him whimpering (but therefore necessarily breathing) on the hood of the closest car. Saw him smirk at the pretty blonde thing he'd just fought for. Pointedly glance over at the demon Crowley had lured here as bait for the Mark's bloodlust like he didn't have a concern in the world. And then calmly walk back inside to his bottle once more.

For the first time since his plan had begun unfolding with a car ride to Cain's bee infested property, Crowley stopped to take stock of everything he'd taken for granted.

Because how could anyone remain so unchanged…

He walked inside to rejoin his greatest creation, but took his time gingerly reclaiming his seat at the small table beside his companion.

"Dean," he began, trying not to sound too out of sorts. "I'm concerned," he continued slowly.

Dean eyed him as he took another swig from whatever local brew he was sampling now. Not even looking like he was closed off to questions, but something in his eye staved them off effectively nonetheless.

And Crowley shivered. Hell help him he shivered at the normality in the man's gaze. His words faltered as he sat gaping for a long second at him. Crossing his hands in his lap, Crowley leaned forward as if about to impart a secret.

"You're a demon," he then pointed out, rather needlessly.

Dean tilted his head and smirked against the bottle. "Got that one, thanks."

"But you're not..." he paused, trying to think of how this could even be put into words. "The way you're acting..."

"What? Not demon-y enough for you?" Dean asked as he caught the bartender's attention over Crowley's shoulder, waving for another refill. "You want me to raze the town instead of raising a little Hell in it? I thought we were here on vacation."

"We are," he agreed. "And that's not it," Crowley said, thinking back to the almost lazy way he'd killed Abbadon's martyrs with that bit of bone he always kept tucked behind his shirt now. How he'd run them through with the First Blade again and again and again until their insides were shredded ribbons.

No, even the King of Hell had to admit he was impressed with the guy's fighting skills when assaulted by even the most fanatic demon. He'd lost none of his hunter's instincts in death and picked up a weapon that, when powered with the Mark of Cain, made him as close to immortal as anything currently walking the earth.

Dean grinned his thanks as he received another frosted bottle and then turned to Crowley with a raised eyebrow. "Then what?"

"It's..." he faltered, blinking. "It's… you're plenty... demon-y," he said stiltedly, utilizing Dean's vocabulary as he watched him closely.

Smiling amusedly, Dean shifted in his seat at the table, lifted the beer to his mouth once more. "So what's the problem, then?"

"The problem," Crowley's eyebrows raised eloquently, "as you put it…" and here he hesitated over several nicknames that didn't feel appropriate anymore. "Is that you're not… different."

Dean froze in place for a long moment, then continued to drink slowly and deliberately with his eyes fixed straight ahead and certainly not at the demon lecturing him.

Crowley leaned forward, elbows resting on the abused wooden tabletop. "Sure, you've got a fancier knife now and your eyes turn black, but… if I hadn't seen your transformation with my own two eyes…" he trailed off, hoping that Dean would join in the conversation at this point. But he was met with a solid wall of silence, so he plowed on.

In for a penny, right?

"I mean… your soul is supposed to be this dark twisted thing that's barely a shadow of who you were in life," he explained in a harsh whisper, hands contorting in front of him. "Most of the lower demons, they can't even remember who they were. And you! You're the new Cain, the original demon, the First Knight of Hell. But looking at you, I never would have known. That you'd even turned. That you were Hell's now and not still a hunter."

He tried to read the expression on Dean's face but couldn't, didn't know how his words were being received. But he'd said the hard parts already now. Might as well ask the question it was all leading up to.

"So…" he drew out the word more nervously than he'd been in a long while. He vacillated on the edge of his seat as he tried to find the right words. Rearranged his coat to buy him a few more seconds before looking up at the figure sitting next to him. "Just how long have you been like this inside, Dean?" he asked, eyes squinting. "How long has your soul been something… not quite human?"

Then Dean's face did change. His lips pulled back in a frightful smile and he turned to Crowley, pinning him with eyes shining intensely with interest in him for the first time since he'd started his newly demonic vacation.

"Well," he drawled, savoring the revelation on his tongue as he thought back through the years to everything he had done, everyone he had killed or gotten killed, all of the lives he had carelessly ruined with the force of a tornado blasting through town, the countless souls he had gleefully tortured for over a decade in exchange for hopping off Hell's rack, the days when he honestly didn't care about anything in the world anymore, the weeks when he lost himself to drink so much that he lashed out at the one or two people who still wanted to help. Realized he couldn't even remember when he'd stopped caring that the demons he was stabbing still had innocent people trapped inside their meat suits crying desperately to be saved.

And the things he'd selfishly messed up and manipulated in Sam's life since the kid had been six months old… No wonder he'd never had a chance to make normal work.

"A lot longer than you'd think," he easily admitted before sliding out of his chair and walking toward the stage to start the next round of karaoke, grin still plastered across his face.

Crowley sat petrified in his seat while Dean hacked his way through at least one full song to the dismay of their fellow patrons, realizing with a sense of bewilderment that without anything further being said, the balance of power in their duo had radically shifted toward the one now singing in public. Now that he finally realized what kind of a person he was. Had been all along. That a Dean removed from his extended partying would be a force of nature that he had no hope of controlling.

And then as the King of Hell thought back to that twisted grin and felt a chill run down his spine, he realized with a shock that a centuries old demon still had the capacity to be horrified.

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><p><strong>Now don't get me wrong, I love Dean's character. But demon!Dean really wasn't very intimidating in the season premiere. And the tumblr conversation I eavesdropped on posited that there might actually be an inherently terrifying reason that he wasn't acting much differently than he was before he died. And the ramifications of that really intrigued me.<strong>

**After all, the point of this season is to ask _who are the real monsters?_ now isn't it?**


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